***
KORDISLAEN WAS IN A MEETING WHENRONAN FOUND HIM. Knowing better than to interrupt, he remained outside the door and waited for it to end.
When it was finally over, and the warriors had departed the room, Kordislaen addressed him. “Captain Ó Faoláin, this is a surprise. Come, walk with me.” He began to move, and Ronan followed. They made their way through the halls, other warriors giving them a wide berth. “What’s the reason for this visit?”
“I have information, sir,” Ronan replied.
Kordislaen smiled. It was a subtle expression but a pleased one all the same. “Go on, then.”
Ronan explained what he’d overheard, and any doubt he had over bringing the matter to the general was silenced when Kordislaen nodded.
“You did well, telling me this. I’ll have it handled.”
A small kernel of guilt turned Ronan’s stomach. “What will you do?”
Kordislaen looked at Ronan, eyes appraising. He was deciding whether to trust him, Ronan realized. Or whether to chastise himfor the unnecessary question. It wasn’t the place of a warrior to question their general.
Something must have won Kordislaen over, because when he spoke, his voice was understanding. “What you did is not insignificant. It’s these very actions that ensure the safety of everyone here; a soldier is only as useful as he is loyal. Don’t fear—his baseless rumors and careless threats are minor in the grand scheme. While I could make an example of him, sometimes it’s better to keep those we suspect close and maintain a watchful eye. Should he eventually choose to do something greater than slander, then I will not hesitate to act.
“You have my gratitude, Ronan, and will be rewarded greatly for it.” Kordislaen rested a hand on Ronan’s shoulder. The action was almost fatherly. “You’ve proven yourself to be exactly what I had hoped you would become.”
With that, the general left Ronan, to return to his schedule. And that small shred of guilt was long forgotten, replaced by a hesitant but glowing sense of pride.
Chapter Twenty
Today’s class will be different from our normal routine,” Kordislaen began.
Clía looked to Ronan beside her in the training arena’s stands, the rest of the daltas scattered around them. Ronan shrugged; he knew as little as she did. The wind bit at her skin as they waited for Kordislaen to explain.
“It is time for you to be tested once more. If you wish to stay, impress me.”
She turned to Ronan and whispered, “Is it too late to stop trying?”
He rolled his eyes. When he shifted, his arm brushed against hers, and her breath caught.
It had been almost a month since their kiss, something Clía deeply regretted and only wanted to repeat every day. She had been so relieved when Ronan continued joking with her, understanding why it could never be, without her needing to explain.
Now if only she could get her traitorous mind and body to understand as well.
She turned back to the general.
“I will also be keeping a close eye on those who remain throughout the week.” Kordislaen smiled at them, reminding Clía of a shark eyeing it’s kill. “However, about today—you willbe dueling again. I’ve given you plenty of time to practice. Now you need to show me how much you’ve learned. Retrieve your weapon of choice and come back ready to fight.”
Clía walked with the rest of the daltas to the armory. There was no mad rush and chaos like that first day. They were no longer desperate students eager to show off and win over the general, but a troop following orders. No one clamored for the best blade; the routine of picking weapons had been ingrained in them. Clía grabbed her favorite broadsword, the edges slicing through the air as she lifted it from its mount on the wall, careful of other reaching hands.
Walking back to the arena, she adjusted her leather armor as it rubbed against her shoulders. Many of the warriors had their personal armor brought from home, and it was as comfortable to them as a ball gown was to her, but Clía still hadn’t grown used to it. She doubted she ever would—she could barely tolerate wearing wool. She paused and considered the worn, tanned hide. Every time she fought, it distracted her and hindered her movements. The restrictions only added another aspect of challenge to fighting, one she couldn’t risk during a trial.
When Clía entered the arena with the rest of the warriors, she wore only her training clothes—a tight-fitting tunic and pants, sturdy boots, and a belt for her sword. She was the only warrior with no armor. If she was fast, like Ronan said she was, she wouldn’t need it.
Returning to her seat beside him, he took one look at her in her training shirt and breeches and raised a brow. She could practically hear his voice in her head calling her reckless.
“I’m feeling brave today,” she whispered.
The decision was a risk, and he had every right to chastise her for it, but he stayed silent. If she didn’t know any better, she would say he was impressed. But before he turned back to Kordislaen, she thought she caught a glint of fear in his eyes. Worry for her, and maybe for himself as well.
She would prove to him that she could handle this.
Most important, she would prove it to herself.
